


Past Fight

by thethirdseventh



Category: Relatos Salvajes
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 17:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16201823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethirdseventh/pseuds/thethirdseventh
Summary: Every night on his way back, the airstrip's lights were there, dancing to the music in his head. And he didn’t see them, but he knew the planes were there, too.





	Past Fight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chantefable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/gifts).



> Fun fact: There is actually an airport in Palomar, and you can actually see it from a very short distance when you pass by it with the San Martín train. Source: I live in Buenos Aires and have been taking that train to go to and from the capital all my life. The fact that Pasternak’s school (and thus probably his home) is said to be in Palomar, which happens to house an airport (not Jorge Newbery —a.k.a. Aeroparque— though, which is the one we see in the movie), is a bit of fridge genius I hadn’t noticed before writing this.

The problem, as Gabriel saw it, was that he’d been wanting the wrong things. He stepped out of what would be his last session with that money-grabbing headshrinker and into the cool night air. It was refreshing, both the breeze and the realization. For the first time in a lifetime, he saw clearly.

Being a high-fly composer? Dating a model, for God’s sake? Anyone could have told him it was too much. If he had difficulty handling failure, then it was because he’d been putting himself up for the kind of failure so great, so spectacular, it had the power to completely crush a man. (He wasn’t _broken_.)

He hunched in his coat and made for the train station. He watched the train leave from a block away. He (decided he) didn’t mind. Fifteen minutes, he noticed as he slumped on the metal bench (it was cold). He could wait.

The solution, now that he’d pinpointed the problem, seemed laughably simple: He needed to step down, fly lower, find something he could actually handle. He had no problem admitting some things were too big for him. At least for the time being. And if the time being turned out to be forever, well, then he could deal with that too, right? He didn’t need to lay down ridiculous amounts of money for someone to help him make peace with himself.

It was himself. He could do it. Love thyself, and all that.

As the train took him closer and closer to Palomar that night, he stared at the little lights along the airstrip. By daylight, you could see the planes stationed there, just on the other side of the windowpane, looking as if you could reach out and grab them. He still did it, sometimes, make with his hands as if to hold them, trying to get the perspective to line up just right. But right now, only the lights were visible, white, red, a rhythmic blur under the motion of the train. Dancing. Note followed note in his head, automatically, a playful melody he wouldn’t force himself to remember. Not this time.

The doors opened, and he was greeted with cool, fresh air for the second time that night. He walked home, and his little melody followed.

—

Money was starting to become an issue. Casa Tía had been a good gig, while it lasted, and he’d received up to the last penny of his compensation money after being unfairly let go, but even that was starting to run out. He’d rather not touch his savings if he could avoid it. At least he didn’t have to pay for therapy anymore.

Time to look for another job.

—

“Soulsuck,” opined Martínez. “A complete and utter soulsuck.”

It was. 

“Pays the bills,” said Gabriel.

It did.

—

Every night on his way back, the lights were there, dancing to the music in his head. And he didn’t see them, but he knew the planes were there too.

—

It started with a flyer, doing exactly what it was supposed to. It smacked him right in the face. He didn’t believe in fate, but if anything had ever looked like it, this was it. Just as he’d stopped hunting for opportunities, the world landed them at his feet.

He showed the pamphlet to Martínez that day at work. The man’s eyes narrowed, but the rest of his face wasn’t in it. Skeptic, but hopeful, pretty much the same way Gabriel felt.

“You say we can get a job out of this?”

“No,” ventured Gabriel. Nobody was saying anything about a job. It was just a _course_. You _might_ get hired by the airline after, if you did particularly well, but there were no guarantees. And that’s how he’d take it. 

During the past six months, he’d focused on walking without looking at the road. _‘Then, one day, you’ll find you’ve gotten yourself there.’_ He’d read that in a book about accomplishing your goals. Or maybe it was the one about not setting them in the first place. He didn’t remember. He’d been reading a lot. The important thing was, it had been working. But he knew Martínez wouldn’t understand if he said that. “But we might,” he risked. 

—

He got everything ready, and waited. The night before, his mother called. Twenty straight minutes she talked. He gripped the cord the whole time, knuckles threatening to split the skin. 

He didn’t know where the road might take him, but he hoped it would be far away from this. 

He spent the whole time imagining arrangements for an aria he would never write. Working title: Flight.

—

He showed up, papers ready, Martínez in tow. In time, too. There were another five hundred people there. He made a point of not looking at them as he got in line.

“You think we’ll make it?” said Martínez, minutes later. He was chewing on the skin around his fingernails, eyes fixed on the growing crowd. Gabriel glared at him, wondering what he was getting out of this friendship. He wanted the man to do well, really, but he kept focusing on the negative. Assuming things would go wrong before they did. Always looking to tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

The problem, as Gabriel saw it, was that Martínez had his eyes _glued_ to the road. It was toxic.

He looked away before he had to punch the guy in the face, and saw her. She was looking at him. She smiled. He smiled.

And then Martínez huffed impatiently behind him, and the spell broke. He whirled around, about to… to…

You have no control over this, he thought. Let it go.

So he did.

—

It took forever, but the day ended. They were in. 

When his mother called next, Gabriel had something to tell her. He never knew if she was pleased, but at least she had nothing to say. Apparently, he’d gotten somewhere.

—

He saw her again on the first day. He smiled. She smiled. Then someone passed her a nametag, and she had a name: Valeria. He filed it for future reference, but carefully didn’t make any plans. Eyes off the road.

—

The first four months of training, he mainly stuck it out with Martínez and no one else. The second four months, though, the group got split in two for the practical lessons. He barely saw him outside of work after that.

Valeria, though, was still there, and as it turned out, they made a great team. She was a bit dull, and only kind of pretty. It was easy to fly low around her.

The last four months were spent over beer and badmouthing instructors with friends. Her friends, but still more than he’d ever made. And if sometimes he got a little impatient, well, maybe it was because he’d finally allowed himself to relax. He was getting somewhere.

—

“You think we’ll make it?” asked Valeria. She didn’t chew on her nails, but she had a way of messing with her ponytail.

“I don’t know,” said Gabriel. And then, “we might.” 

—

It took forever, but the year ended. And they were in.

The next time his phone rang, it was his father.

—

Somewhere, he found, meant long hours in a cheap polyester uniform. But it was here. And so was Valeria.

Thumbtack in hand, he accounted for the passengers in his first flight. _Click, click, click._

He’d earned this. He was there. He was here. There was here, and the rewards awaited him. His life was going better than ever. Better than when he tried to follow his parents’ advice. Better than in all the years of therapy, following the advice —and how silly was this?— of a man that could only benefit from him not getting better. He wasn’t broken, and he’d proven it. And now the world was his.

He sought Valeria. She said no.

And he wondered, if he’d been doing everything right, then how the fuck could that happen?

Answer was, it couldn’t.

And if he had trouble handling that, well, it was because he was tired of being lied to.

But he wasn’t broken.

—

It was Martínez, because _of course_ it was. Because of course the fact that he never saw him outside of work didn’t only have to do with them being split during training. 

Valeria hadn’t been looking at him that day, not until Gabriel looked at her and she had to aknowledge him. She’d been looking at Martínez. And the bastard hadn't even been trying to do things right.

—

The problem, as Gabriel saw it, was that he’d been mislabeling the problem. Things hadn’t been _happening_ to him. Things had been being _done_ to him. Because each time he looked back on anything that'd ever gone wrong in his life, there was a person involved.

It didn't matter how low he flew. Not when at every height, there was people waiting to throw stones at you for whatever reason. Profit, perks, downright sadism. It was always someone else. If he had difficulty handling failure, it was because at no point had he deserved it.

The problem, as Gabriel saw it, was that he'd never wanted to aknowledge it. Because who the fuck would want to live in a world like that?

The realization sat on his chest like lead, but it was, nonetheless, freeing. It wasn’t his fault. He’d fought the fight, given everything he could, and reaped whatever meager rewards they’d let him have.

The problem, as Gabriel saw it, was that he’d never fought back.

He sought Martínez.

Later, with his hands bloodied, as he listened to Martínez wheezing his last, he couldn’t help but overlay a melody over the rythm.

—

Gabriel wondered how long it would be until they found him. He hadn’t taken any particular care, but so far, nothing had happened, and the world was fucked anyway, so the next day he went to work.

He didn’t know the body wouldn’t be found until months later. He didn’t care.

When his superior told him he’d be out of a job at the end of the month, it didn’t even surprise him. Downsizing, he said, sorry kid. Nothing you did, but at least there’s gonna be a hefty compensation, or so I hear.

Whatever. The only thing Gabriel knew then was that the race wasn’t even worth running. He had no wish to start all over again. That, and that fighting back may have been the only worthwhile thing he’d ever done.

—

He watched the liquid darkness of the coffe rise in the paper cups. They were all here.

He heard Isabel and Salgado talking about him as he walked past them with the tray, not even recognizing him. Him gloating about his fall, her, perhaps worse yet, pretending to give a damn.

It would be over soon enough.

As the pilots fell asleep, he locked the door. In the cabin, the silence was almost complete. And it was in that silence that notes started pouring in full. He didn’t have to worry about anything here. Not about what others would think. Not about how he was going to put this beautiful melody to paper. Because it didn’t matter.

He hadn’t been broken, but he would be soon enough. Along with all of them. Taking control of the console, he felt he didn’t even hate them anymore. There was no point. Maybe he was doing them a favor. The world was rotten, they were rotten.

He may have been the only one to see clearly, but he couldn’t have been the only one to suffer from it.

He dived down, and his little melody followed.


End file.
